An Early Wake

by Sheila Connolly

  “You’ll have heard the term ‘lock-in’?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure how it works.”

  “If you want to keep yer pub open after legal closing time, you ask that yer patrons pay for their drinks beforehand, and then after closing time you lock yer doors and it becomes a private party, with no money changing hands.”

  “Ah.” Maura could see a lot of room for interpretation of the law there, but it made a kind of sense. “What about you, Billy? Did you join in?”

  He grinned. “You’ve never heard me sing, have you? Like a gate that needs greasin’. No, I’d keep an eye on the front of the house while Mick covered the back. Grand times they were.”

  “That kid who was talking with Rose—he says he’s a student at Trinity, studying how popular music changed in Ireland in the nineties—not the old stuff. He seems to think Sullivan’s was like the center of the music universe, at least around here. Would you be willing to talk to him? I can’t tell him anything, and Rose is too young to have known about it then, but I’m sure you could fill his ear for quite a while. Do you mind if I turn him over to you?”

  “I’m happy to go on about those days. And if he’s to be around fer a few days, then he and Rose can spend some time together as well.”

  Maura was struck once again with how perceptive Billy was. He might look like a doddering old man, but he was shrewd enough to recognize that Rose was enjoying Tim’s company. “You playing matchmaker now, Billy? I don’t know how long Tim will be around, but he was asking about a place to stay.”

  “Assuming he needs to get back to Dublin for the start of Michaelmas term, that’s not ’til late in the month. So he’s got a bit of time free.”

  Michaelmas? Another label that meant nothing to Maura. In any case, Tim would have a week or two to find out whatever he needed for his paper or whatever. “When he comes back, I’ll tell him to talk to you.”

  “My pleasure. You might tell him to talk to Mick as well.”

  “You don’t mean Old Mick, do you?” Maura teased.

  “Sure and he’s dead, isn’t he? No, Mick Nolan. He was still at school when all the bands were playing here, but he hung around as much as Mick would let him.”

  “Huh,” Maura replied. She’d never seen Mick show the slightest interest in music, but then, he was certainly closemouthed about his own life. Maybe he had hidden depths. Or maybe she should talk to him first, before siccing Tim on him.

  Chapter 3

  By the time Rose and Tim returned an hour later, business had picked up a bit—now there were six men and a lone woman in Sullivan’s, each looking for a quick pint or a cup of coffee before taking off to do errands. Or filling their time, if they had no jobs to go to. About normal, but any one customer made a noticeable impact on the day’s intake. Rose took a quick glance around then hurried to the bar. “Sorry I’ve been so long, but we lost sight of the time.”

  “That’s on me,” Tim said quickly. “It helps me to talk through what I need to know, and what questions I want to ask, so I was trying them out on Rose first.”

  “It’s okay, Rose. Relax,” Maura said, nodding in Billy’s direction. “By the way, Tim, I talked to Billy over there, and he said he’d be glad to fill you in on what used to go on here.”

  Rose beamed. “Oh, that’s brilliant! Tim here was telling me about all the bands back then and all the people who played in ’em. Seems hard to believe, doesn’t it? This place filled with people and music?”

  Sad but true, Maura thought. “Was it the times that changed, or did Old Mick just let it go downhill? He was getting old.”

  “I couldn’t say,” Rose said. “Old Mick never mentioned the past, at least not to me, but I didn’t know him long. You can try asking young Mick, though.”

  “Has he ever talked about music with you? I mean, not just music here, but anywhere else?”

  Rose considered the question. “Not that I remember. He’s not one for those little music players, like so many of the lads.”

  Mick was hardly a lad, Maura thought, since he was probably ten years older than she was. But MP3 players or mobile phones that played music were nearly universal these days. Not that she’d ever had the money for either one. Shoot, that reminded her of another expense to consider: her pay-as-you-go phone was almost out of minutes. Now she’d have to figure out what she wanted in a phone—and what she could afford. She didn’t have many people to call, but it was good to have a phone just in case.

  Her mind was drifting, so she straightened her shoulders and told Rose, “Will you take over the bar for now? I’d like to hear what Billy has to say too, I guess. Tim, you come with me and we’ll talk to Billy together. The price for his talk is usually a pint.”

  “You said his name was Sheahan? Is he related to the people who run the hotel across the road? The sign there’s kind of hard to miss.”

  “He is, but don’t ask me exactly how. I keep finding that everyone around here is related somehow, even to me. They can’t always explain how we’re related, though, so they just call us cousins,” Maura said. “Anyway, come on over and let me introduce you to Billy.” She led the way to the corner next to the fireplace where Billy held court. Billy looked up, delighted at the idea of a new audience.

  “Billy, this is Timothy Reilly from Dublin,” Maura said. “He wants to talk about the music at Sullivan’s, back in the early nineties.”

  “Fáilte romhat, mo bhuachaill,” Billy said, laying it on thick.

  “Go raibh maith agat, a dhuine uasail,” Tim replied promptly.

  Billy smiled broadly. “Ah, the schools are doing a sound job of keeping the language alive these days! So, Timothy Reilly. Where are yer people from?”

  “Me ma was from Clonakilty, sir, but she left there early for Dublin.”

  “And now yer doin’ a degree at Trinity. In music?”

  “I am, sir. I’m interested in the persistence of musical traditions as they’ve been carried over into contemporary forms. I’ve been told that Sullivan’s here was a sort of nexus.”

  Billy looked blank at the unfamiliar word, but Tim was quick to realize it. “Sorry, kind of a crossroads, where the old and the new came together. I’ve heard that a lot of sidemen from some of the big-name groups made it a point to drop in here just to play with whoever was handy. And whoever wandered into the pub was the happy beneficiary.”

  “Yer not far wrong, my boy. Let me tell you . . .” And Billy was off. Maura sat back and contented herself with listening, while keeping an eye on Rose behind the bar, but there were few new customers in the midafternoon. Tim, on the other hand, pulled out a small notebook and was trying to keep up with scribbled notes, stopping Billy every now and then to clarify a point or check the spelling of a name. He seemed to grow more excited the longer Billy talked, almost bouncing in his chair. After an hour or so Billy cleared his throat and, with a pointed glance toward the bar, said, “All this talkin’ is dry work. I wouldn’t say no to a pint.”

  Tim looked startled, until he figured out what Billy meant. “Oh, right, of course. I’ll be just a minute.”

  When he had walked away, Maura leaned in toward Billy. “You don’t mind, do you? He seems very eager.”

  “Saints, no! It’s a rare treat to talk about those days, those people. There are few who know about it anymore; fewer still who ask.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Maura said. “Was it really a big thing?” She wasn’t even sure what a “big thing” would mean around here. “Old Mick had regular music events here? Not just a guy with a fiddle and someone with a drum or that bagpipe thing?”

  Billy nodded. “That’s the traditional style, and it’s an uilleann pipe, not a bagpipe. Mick pulled in a few of those, now and then. The tourists like it. But that wasn’t where his heart lay. He brought the new music in—the bands on the way up or the ones on the way down, and anywhere in between.” Billy cocked his head at her. “Yer not one for the music, are you, now?” When Maura shook her he
ad, he went on, “How do I say it best? There are the stars—the bands that play in the big stadiums in the big cities—and no doubt you’ve heard of those. Then there are the others who play with them now and then, when the schedules fit. They aren’t always part of the band, see, but they’re on tap fer when they’re needed, and you might never hear their names. And those are the ones, who aren’t working steady, who come together at places like these to keep their hand in, and to swap gossip.”

  “Okay, I can understand that. But what was special about Sullivan’s? Was it the only game around?”

  “It was Mick made it into something more, you see. He knew music and he knew people, and he knew how to put them together. So the fellas that showed up here of an evening were fair talents on their own, and the word got ’round. They came from all over, and they knew Mick would give them a hot meal, as much as they could drink, and a bed for the night—or the floor if all the beds were filled. All they had to do was play, and play they did. The lads would have played anyways, but when they were into it, it was something special, and the audience knew it.”

  “How did people find out they were playing here? I mean, this was before the Internet or even cell phones. Or didn’t it matter? I mean, were they just playing for themselves, or did they need an audience?” Maura asked.

  “The people came. I couldn’t tell you how they heard, back then, but they found their way here.”

  “How long did all this last?”

  Billy contemplated the flaking plaster of the ceiling for a moment. “A decade, maybe? Times changed, and so did the music. After a while the players stopped coming around so often, and I guess Mick got tired.” Billy paused as Tim reappeared. “Ah, Timothy, there you are—I’d started to wonder if you were brewin’ the stuff yerself. Or was it that yer brewin’ something with that lovely young girl over there?”

  Maura watched with amusement as Tim blushed.

  Tim set the brimming pint down where Billy could reach it and turned to Maura. “Hey, it sounds like you’ve got loads of great stories, and there are probably other people around here that I should be talking with. I don’t suppose Mick Sullivan kept any written records, did he?”

  Maura suppressed a rude snort. She herself now had the sum and total of Mick’s documents, which consisted of a single battered file folder holding a list of his suppliers and a few other pieces of paper. All other details—about ownership of the place, taxes paid, and the like—were in his lawyer’s hands, along with his will. Or rather, her lawyer—solicitor?—now. “Sorry, Tim,” Maura said, “but Mick ran the place to suit himself and no one else. I don’t think he was thinking about preserving the history of the place.”

  “That’s all right—an oral history will do just as well.” Tim stood up and faced Billy again. “Thank you, Mr. Sheahan. May I spend some more time with you tomorrow?”

  “Mr. Sheahan was me da—I’m Billy to one and all, save that the boys call me Old Billy when they think I can’t hear them. But I can’t say they’re lyin’, for I know I’m old. I’d be happy to ramble on tomorrow. Stop by ’round lunchtime, will you?”

  “I’ll do that, thank you.”

  Maura looked over at the bar to see Rose getting ready to go home and fix her father’s supper. Still no sign of Jimmy, but she saw Mick through the window, heading her way. “Tim, why don’t you catch Rose on her way out, and she can give you directions to that hostel she mentioned earlier? We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here. Thanks, Maura.” He ducked his head and hurried over to the bar, where Rose gave him a huge smile, which in turn brought on another vivid blush from Tim. Rose slipped on a sweater, and he held the door for her, then followed her out. Mick slid in as they left, giving Tim a speculative look as they crossed paths.

  “Evenin’, Maura. What’s his story?” Mick nodded in the direction of Tim and Rose, who were now standing on the sidewalk outside the pub. Rose was gesturing broadly toward the west and Skibbereen. But before Maura could explain, a group of customers came in, and she and Mick got caught up in serving them.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” she said, as she busied herself pulling pints.

  Chapter 4

  Their steadiest crowd at Sullivan’s was made up of men who stopped by nearly every day on the way home. Whether they had jobs, Maura didn’t know for sure, nor did she feel she could ask; she’d make conversation with them, but never about anything serious, and only if they seemed to want to talk. But they all seemed to know one another. They’d drift in and settle in for a pint or two, in no hurry to go home to their dinner. Or maybe there was no one waiting for them, and Sullivan’s was as close as they came to a home. As long as they bought their pints, Maura wouldn’t complain, and it wasn’t as though other people were clamoring for their seats. On average each man stayed a bit over an hour, then drifted out the way he’d come, with a raised hand or a tipped cap as he went out the door.

  When they’d gotten everyone served, Mick found time to ask, “Right, so—who was that boy in here earlier?”

  “The one Rose was talking to? What, are you looking out for Rose now?” Maura swallowed the rest of what she wanted to say, which was that someone had to: Rose had no mother to look after her, and her father, Jimmy, was all but useless. “I worry about Rose,” she said.

  “You’ve said that before. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, Maura. Let her work things out for herself. You’ve got enough on yer plate with this place without worrying needlessly about things that don’t require yer assistance.”

  “I know, but there’s not much of a future for her in this place.”

  “Maybe some Prince Charming will walk in and sweep her away,” Mick said, unruffled. “Which brings me back to my original question. Who was the fella I saw her leaving with? We don’t get many around here who are both young and unfamiliar. Tourist?”

  “Not exactly.” Maura filled Mick in on Tim’s musical quest. “Since I didn’t know squat about that, I handed him over to Billy, who was happy to explain. Or start to, at least. It sounds like Billy has plenty of information. What about you? Do you know about what went on here?”

  Mick stared over Maura’s head, lost in thought. “Right, you wouldn’t know,” he said, almost to himself.

  Maura turned to face him. “Well, of course I wouldn’t! I’ve barely been here six months. Tim’s asking about twenty years ago. So unless U2 played here or something, I doubt I’d have heard about it.”

  Mick smiled. “No one quite so grand. But not so far from it as you might think, looking at the place.”

  “So fill me in. I hate looking stupid.”

  Mick didn’t answer directly. “You’ve seen the back room?”

  Maura nodded. “I’ve looked at it, and I shut the door as fast as I could. It’s a mess, and I haven’t had time to worry about it. Why?”

  “That’s where the music was. Did you not notice the equipment?”

  “Not really. If the stuff crammed in the corners there is music equipment, it looks pretty ancient.”

  “Maybe, but back then it was top of the line, especially for a small place.”

  “So how many people does this ‘small’ back room hold?”

  Mick’s mouth twitched. “There’s some legal piece of paper somewhere that says this place can accommodate up to two hundred people—that’s back and front combined. I’d say we often had closer to three hundred, at least a time or two.”

  “And the building didn’t fall down?” Maura was having trouble wrapping her head around the idea of crowds in the hundreds in Sullivan’s. She’d never seen more than fifty people in the pub at one time; she couldn’t begin to imagine it holding three hundred.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the back wall is built against the stone of the hill, so it can’t go anywhere. The building’s well over two hundred years old, and solid—have you not seen how thick the walls are? We did have to reinforce the balcony, though.”

  Maura interrupted him. “Whoa, wai
t—there’s a balcony in there?”

  “It runs around the room, upstairs. It’s not so big, maybe one and a half meters deep. But then, the stage is no more than four and a half meters square. Cozy, you might say.”

  So about five feet deep. Maura worked it out in her head. “There’s a second bar back there, right?”

  “There is,” Mick told her. “Not as big as the one out here, maybe three meters across.”

  Maura was still trying to sort out how much she didn’t know about her own building. Balcony? Stage? She really needed to take a better look at that back room. “When did all this happen?”

  Mick leaned back against the bar and checked the room: nobody appeared to need a drink topped off. “The nineties? I was still in school, but I hung out here whenever I could. I did odd jobs for Old Mick, and he let me sneak in to see the bands.”

  Maura studied Mick’s face in surprise: she’d never seen him this enthusiastic about anything before, and it made him look somehow younger, his eyes bright with memories. “Did Old Mick play?” she asked.

  “That he didn’t, or not seriously. Not like the ones who came from all over. Call him an entrepreneur, an impresario. Or maybe a wizard. He called them here, though I never knew how. The musicians just appeared, and then the people followed. And it was grand.”

  “Why’d it stop?” Maura asked, although she thought she could guess. Old Mick had been well past eighty when he died, and wasn’t live music a young man’s game?

  Mick shrugged. “Hard to say. Old Mick got tired, and the music world moved on. I’m not sure he ever came to terms with some of the changes in the music. Are you much for the music yerself?”

  That matched what Billy had told her. Maura shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I worked in a few bars in Southie, or around Boston, mostly the ones with a lot of Irish guys in ’em. Give them a few pints and they’d start singing the old songs. Seemed like everybody knew the words to them. Sometimes they’d get stirred up and there’d be a fight or two. Other times they got kind of sad and quiet. Either way, they bought a lot of pints.”